


Yours, Always

by Caledfwlch (orphan_account)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, a love story less than a decade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5790604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Caledfwlch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why yes, my dear Laurens. Indeed— you know I am not wed just yet. Bachelors, the both of us.” John nearly laughs at his satire, but Alexander captures his lips. It strikes John straight through in the chest. His boy mouths against the shell of John’s ear, “perhaps you will be my bride.”</p>
<p>“Some bride I would be.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours, Always

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Onion_Wanton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Onion_Wanton/gifts).



> first historical lams ayyy
> 
> i know that john was actually there for the battle of yorktown, but i decided to go with the musical canon on that for some reason

“What do you believe you’ll be doing ten years from now?”

There’s a twinkle in Alexander’s eyes as he asks it. As if he knows something John does not; as if any answer the other man gave could not begin to surpass Alexander’s own foresight.

Or maybe it's only the beer.

John opts to reply with a light laugh, leaning back to kick his boots up on the bar. They barely miss Lafayette’s forehead, the owner of which is sprawled on the counter like an imitative cat. Dingy, the room is, and the light is low. Alexander’s skin seems to glow and melt like a spirit’s. ( _Push it down._ )

Laurens finally replies, carefully numbering his words, “I don’t believe this war offers us the luxury of time with which to make those sorts of plans, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Oh John, there is always time if one is willing and industrious enough to seek it.”

Something catches in his chest. He swigs his beer. “You’re a wordy drunk.”

Color rises in the man’s cheeks; his head tilts back in a whirlwind of a laugh, John is breathless— ( _Push it down, push it down._ )

“I have been informed so, yes.” Hamilton tosses his hair. He nearly whacks Mulligan, who drowses against the bar. “But it is a quiet night— at least in here.”

“How about you, then?” John tells himself he’ll humor this strange person, let him see how long his eloquence can hold up. He thinks Alexander can hold his liquor much too well for a man of his size.

“What do I believe I’ll be doing?”

“ _Yes_ , my dear.”

He ignores John’s slip of the tongue and plows forward. “Ten years? Forget ten years!” Hamilton slops some of his beer over his shirt in his excitement. “The nation will be building her people— her people!” He drinks emphatically, rising to swayingly prop himself against the bar, attempting a Shakespearian air, and failing endearingly. “There is so much work to be done. After the Revolution, I fully expect a new government in need of constructing, and I fully intend to have a hand in it.”

“Impressive,” John drawls.

Alexander’s eyes flash. “What of you, then? Have you the gall to answer my question?”

John stares into his drink. The low light makes it burn like amber. “I have no idea,” he says before he can stop it, the words flickering from the memories of his father’s strictness to the forefront of his vision to his numb lips. His chest feels like the hull of an old, abandoned ship: weathered, swaying, empty.

Alexander spreads his fingers over John’s neck. They are warm.

—

The heat in South Carolina is heavy and sticks to John like molasses. He stares from his window, the dark backs of his father’s slaves bobbing below him.

Briefly, he remembers: on the coast, with his sister— “do you see them?” Her giggle is tinkling bright. “The whales?”

It is laughable. He smears his hair away from his face and dips his quill in his inkwell.

_Alexander—_

_I have received your letters. The front sounds lively. It is painfully slow here; believe me, I want nothing more than to be at your side & the others’._

_I have discussed the regiment. It seems we must be slyer than anticipated, but I know you will not falter in your work, nor will I._ He hesitates, sighing against the oppressive heat. _Neither of us can afford distractions._

_I will see you soon. Each moment until then stretches further than I would care for._

_Yr. Laurens_

He is no poet, but he hopes it is enough. He orders the letter to be sent before he can dwell on his own words, and how Alexander would interpret them.

John feels an odd melancholy in his chest. He can’t remember the shape of Martha’s hands.

From his pen had strewn an odd mixture of _wait_ and _rush_ , of _don’t leave me behind_ and _break free of me while you still have the chance._

Alexander, of course, knows. He always does. His eyes are quick, flashing mischievously up at John as he descends from his horse a week later.

“It is cool in New York this time of year.” John coughs.

Alexander sparkles. “I don’t imagine a resourceful man like yourself could be troubled by such a challenge.”

—

He parrots the question back to Alexander when there’s blood on his face and a wild hunger in his eyes. His excitement is infectious. John shakes his head like a dog, slamming back his drink.

Alexander is brandishing his sword in the air, earning whoops from the surrounding band of soldiers. “You don’t know the thrill of that ’til you taste it in the air!” he shouts. “They shall call me rash, but I won this battle! Laurens, you should have been there!” He straightens and grins downwards at John, illuminated by the bonfire, the night deep indigo. “You belonged there.”

John raises his glass. “South Carolina called.”

“It was beautiful.” Alexander flops down beside him, chest heaving even as he sits. “I can hardly take my mind off it— I commanded them all beautifully, John.”

“I have no doubt.”

"A decade from now, I'll lie dead in a coffin, and only profit by it!" Alexander starts at the sound of Washington’s shout for him. He rises, swaying lightly. “Do not leave until I return,” he orders John. He smiles as he watches the man leave.

“It is not so bad, you know.”

John nearly jumps, spilling a little of his drink. Lafayette is at his side. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“I have been here for plenty of time.” The Marquis drinks long, looking pointedly at John. He smacks his lips. “As I was saying, it is not quite as bad as you think. I have met many boys, and Adrienne is very understanding.”

Anxiety coils treacherously between John’s ribs, adrenaline still filling him up. “You misunderstand.”

Lafayette continues as if he had said nothing. “In France, it is normal.”

“No, it’s just you.”

Lafayette sighs dramatically. “Ah, you have caught me red-handed, my friend.”

“Did you think you could best me? I’ve seen it, you know.” John downs the last of his glass. “More than I would care to. You! Boy!” He snaps his fingers at a private. “Refill this. I think if I move, I will meet a death more excellent than one of Hamilton’s enemies!”

“You are avoiding the subject,” Lafayette gently points out. “It has been long since you’ve seen your Martha’s face, no?”

John’s drink is pressed back into his hands, and he sighs in relief. He knocks it back, swallowing disgust with the bitter taste. “I do not know what you accuse me of, dear friend,” he finally manages, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. “But I suggest you stop. Affective immediately.”

Lafayette gazes at his soft. Lauren's has to look away. “Do not tell me I didn’t try, then,” Lafayette says. He kisses John gently on the cheek before rising and slipping back into the dark crowd.

John waits until the clearing is empty and still, his thighs slowly freezing to the log. He gazes absentmindedly into the lowering, flickering flames. He reaches out, catches a spark. ( _Push it down._ )

He reaches for his gun when he hears the crunch of leaves, turns. He recognizes the legs and releases his weapon as another kind of panic sets in.

“Washington certainly likes to keep me from delight,” Hamilton sighs as he sits. He stretches his arms above his head, towards the sky, and kicks off his boots. “His views of the future are short-sighted. He won’t hear my plans.”

“You plan for the general?”

“Would you expect of me any less? Give me that.” Hamilton takes a long swig from John’s drink, then hands it back. “The man has much more potential than he yet knows.”

“Do you have plans for me?”

“Of course,” he answers. “I plan for all those who matter to me.” Alexander puts his hand on John’s shoulder, a slight bit too long for camaraderie. “I longed for you while I was away.”

“Oh.” Despite himself, happy warmth fills the cavities in his chest. “How’s that?”

Alex takes John’s chin with his fingers and turns it close. “Simply put, dear Laurens,” he says, “you are the Patroclus to my Achilles.”

John refrains from laughing over how ridiculous he sounds, or crying. He put his hand on Alexander’s chest. He can feel his heartbeat. He can taste the tang of blood between them. “What do you want?”

“I want _you_.”

John could never be one to deny Alexander what he wants.

Alex’s mouth is sweeter than death. John has never felt sicker.

—

_Beloved Father,_

_I write home to inform you of the condition of our affairs, as well as how I miss you. I shall first address the former._

_The few battles we have left to fight have been splendid. I have never met a man quite the likes of George Washington, nor his secretary. They balance one another; the first with his restraint, the second with his boldness. I would not dare to mention a good head, but the man certainly possesses a quick wit and a quick tongue._

_Yorktown was their greatest success yet. Hamilton was at his finest. Have no fear, your crops are in no danger and I will return shortly. Know that America is in safe hands, and her proprietors do not shirk their loyalty. I have no wish but to defend my home._

_I will return to South Carolina to tend to business, though I’m sure the estate is in more than capable hands. Know that your son misses you and loves you very much. I do hope that my current position is acceptable to you, and that this letter may bring you some peace of mind._

—

Alexander’s hair is out. It tumbles in ringlets about him, glowing bronze in the low candlelight. One of his long, long fingers traces letters on John’s shoulder, a pattern too complex to follow. “I believe,” Alexander begins, “I could be satisfied with nothing more than to be near to you for the rest of my life.”

John smiles wanly. He reminds himself that the tent is tied tight shut. No one would search for them at this time of night. He toys with one of Alexander’s loose curls— as if he were a selkie, and if John could find the right part of him, he could keep him there if only he clung to it. “You’re a sight to see,” John murmurs, his breath warm.

Alexander’s blink is weighted. He stretches languidly; John can see his ribs. “You remind me of the stars, John. I have no need of them when I am with you. They pale in comparison. Have you seen your eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Not as I have.” He rolls over, placing his hands on Laurens’ chest. He stares deeply into the other man’s eyes— presses a kiss to his temple. “Not as I have, my love.”

John closes his eyes, and concentrates hard on the warmth, the word. _Love, love, love._

( _Push it down._ )

“We’ll last forever,” Alexander continues, as if John’s hands hadn’t begun to claw at his back with desperation. “Longer than any constellation could dare.”

“You will still want me ten years from now?” John laughs.

Alexander acts shocked. “Naturally!”

“Naturally.”

“Why yes, my dear Laurens. Indeed— you know I am not wed just yet. Bachelors, the both of us.” John nearly laughs at his satire, but Alexander captures his lips. It strikes John straight through in the chest. His boy mouths against the shell of John’s ear, “perhaps you will be my bride.”

“Some bride I would be.” John turns them both, so Alex lies at his side: his equal. So brilliant is the depth of his eyes.

“I am right about these things.” Alexander’s lips quirk. “I will buy you a big house— enormous, with paintings on every wall.” His hands drag down John’s chest. “Every penny I earn will be spent on you, for pretty things, and books we’ll hoard like a dragon keeps his gold.”

John hums to himself. “And what of Miss Schuyler? I assume she’s approved this relation?”

He frowns— a crease in perfection. “Don’t talk about that now.” He pulls John on top of him again and kisses him long, deep. “I love you. I love you more than air.”

“My dear boy.” John presses into him, scrubbing at his hair. The touch of Alexander’s skin softens the gale in his head and outside of them for a moment. John’s heart feels heavier than lead. “Dear heart.”

( _At this rate, I believe we both should have been better off celibate._ )

He keeps the thought to himself.

—

“You seem distracted.”

“Do I?” John shifts in his seat. He takes his napkin to his mouth delicately.

“No need to play coy with me, John,” Elizabeth gently chides. “I worry for him, too.”

John can see why he married her. He sees a glimpse of her in her doe-like black eyes as she nibbles her scone: the strength underneath and the same clever flint, but gentler and round about the edges. His heart contracts. It had never been what marriage was about, before.

“Homemade, I presume?” he asks, gesturing towards the basket. “These are excellent, Mrs. Hamilton.”

She giggles softly, her hand to her mouth. A pink tint rises in her cheeks nonetheless. “Eliza, please. My Alexander will be home soon. He instructed me to tell you to wait upstairs for him.”

John’s heartbeat quickens. “Well, I don’t mind keeping you company.”

“I have plenty of company.” Elizabeth pats her belly fondly. Her eyes crinkle. “Go.”

John hurries up, relieved and anticipatory all at once. Alexander’s blankets are thinner than the ones at home. He worries his Alex might get sick.

Alexander’s smile shines like gold when he arrives. “You’re _here_ ,” he breathes, quickly locking the bedroom door and immediately climbing into John’s lap. His mouth skids over his neck, his jaw.

“Eliza… told me to.”

“Betsey is a good girl,” Alexander sighs as he struggles to kick off his shoes. “Oh, how I’ve missed you. You don’t know it is, the hurt.”

He lets himself be kissed until Alex pulls back again. “Does she know?” John whispers.

“Not of anything of import,” Alexander assures him. “She’s going out this evening. A ladies’ tea party. Very decent. She will stumble upon no intrusion of our men’s affairs.”

“When is she due?”

Alexander kisses John hard in reply, which answers the question better than any words. John lets him take what he wants, the flavor of his name aching on the back of his tongue.

_It is better this way._

—

_My dearest Alexander,_

_The regiment is finally ready. As frustrating as my current situation is, I cannot help to marvel at the glories the future of this nation will hold. I have no doubt you will be as impressed of my efforts as I am of yours._

_How the time flies. I pray this letter will reach you, but fear not; I won’t be long. Our reunion, I guarantee, shall be as triumphant as all the revolutions of this world._

_Give my warm regards to your wife and dear sister. My love for the fairness in your estate cannot be expressed with the written word, by my hand alone._

_I will return very shortly. Until then, I bid you adieu, my dear boy._

_Yrs., always,  
John_


End file.
